AN: SO THIS IS LIKE, WAY RANDOM. I blame Adam Lambert and his sexy, inspiring voice. And my imagination, but that's kind of a given. And then I was like, "I WANT MCCOY EATING COOKIES" and it worked it's way in there too. Whatever. Hope you enjoy this little tidbit, anyways. Also, happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day!
It started with Tollhouse cookies, booze, and an email from Joanna.
Jo had been rambling about her new favorite retro singer in her last comm, and so McCoy had asked her to send some audio clips. He wasn't uncultured, as Jim constantly said. He could appreciate something other than bluegrass and jazz. It was just that when he opened the sexual-ridden songs, he kind of sneered and rolled his eyes. Of course Jocelyn wouldn't give a damn about what Joanna listened to, but he certainly didn't like it. She'd be upset when he protested, so he at least had the decency to listen to the rest of it.
The last song on the album struck him in the gut, just a little. It reminded him of the sappy love songs he'd listened to, during those first few years working late at the hospital, when his marriage with Jocelyn had been a new and precious thing.
He missed how that love felt, if he cared to admit it. He missed the sweet elation he got from a simple smile or kiss, the feeling that he'd break if she hadn't loved him back.
As he took a sip of bourbon, his mind wondered to a certain colleague who'd been cropping up in his mind a lot as of late, and he frowned, nibbling one of the cookies Uhura had sent him a few days ago for his birthday.
"Damn," he muttered, and sat back in his chair, shedding his boots and kicking his feet up on his desk. His quarters were warm and just the right side of humid, and he let himself relax fully in what felt like forever. The song ended, and he finished off his cookie before saying,
"Computer. Put last song on repeat." The slow beat, twanging guitar, and admittedly beautiful voice rang out on the speakers, lulling him deeper into comfort.
"This aching heart ain't broken yet, Oh God I wish I could make you see, 'cause I know this flame isn't dying…"
Was that what he wanted? Damn, he didn't know what he wanted.
Well, no, those were actually pretty clear. What he wanted was a warm body to wake up next to and share some tender moments with in the sleepy hours of early morning. Fingers that wove between his and a soft beat of pulse that would stutter under his lips. Graceful not-smiles and warm brown eyes, long fingers and pointed ears-
"No. Fuck," he grumbled, tearing another cookie apart with his teeth. Damn, chocolate was good. The bourbon burned sweetly after it, and he tipped his head back onto the headrest of his chair, staring blearily at the ceiling.
He was such a sap. A damned fool sap, in love with a loveless creature. Wasn't that dandy. He allowed himself a little bitter laugh at that, this time forgoing his shot glass and taking a deep pull from the bottle.
"I just wanna be with you, 'cause livin' is so hard to do, when all I know is trapped inside your eyes…"
Jim would laugh if he could see him like this. But what was he supposed to do, turn off his romanticism? He romanticized everything. Especially those moments when their eyes met across the bridge and he had to look away, afraid that he could see everything, and he probably could, the smug bastard.
Spock had touched his hand the other day. He sighed, sucking cookie crumbs off his fingers. It was pathetic how much that little brush of fingers in the turbo lift had sent his heart hammering, and he teetered on the edge of berating himself for that or indulging in the warmth it implanted in his chest.
"Baby you know that, maybe it's time for miracles, 'cause I ain't givin' up on love…"
He ate another cookie, swigged some more bourbon, and closed his eyes, content to be at war with himself. He'd nearly dozed off when his balance tipped suddenly, leaning too far back in his chair. He quickly tried to right himself again but ended up slopping bourbon all down his front, and he stood up and cursed heartily, stripping off his sticky shirt.
McCoy moved lazily through his quarters, hunting through drawers and his messy floor to find a clean and comfy shirt, and then sweats. He might as well go to bed- it was his day off, anyways. The alcohol buzzed fuzzily in his system, making him sleepier than he usually would be at 23:31. He pulled on his clothes and buried himself under his comforter, feeling cold. The sheets weren't warm, were too stiff, and would always lack that warmth that came from another person.
"So nothing can stop me from tryin', Baby you know that, maybe it's time for miracles, 'cause I ain't givin' up on love, you know that maybe it's time for miracles…"
If a couple tears came to his eyes at that, well, there was no one to see them. And he was drunk. He could feel sorry for himself, if he wanted. Suddenly his door chimed, and he cursed as he got up, scrubbing his eyes self-consciously.
The bulkhead whooshed open, and Spock stood on the other side, his hands clenched and chin raised in what looked like anger. McCoy's stomach clenched, threatening to expel cookies and bourbon. He dug his fingers into the frame of the bulkhead and tried not to think of how fiercely beautiful Spock looked.
"Mr. Spock. Is there something you needed?" His voice was thick, and he stared at Spock's collarbone and forced his lip not to wobble.
"Doctor McCoy. You have refused to meet my gaze for more than 0.63 seconds in the last week. I demand to know what I have done to offend you." Startled, McCoy looked up, scowling.
"First of all, do you know what damn time it is? I was just going to bed, you bastard. Second, why I do or do not look at you is my own damn business. And third, what the hell do you care?" Spock's jaw tightened a little at that.
"I apologize for disturbing you, but it concerns me greatly." McCoy blinked at him, sure that he was hearing wrong.
"What?" There were tendons sticking out in Spock's neck now. Damn, if the man were wound any tighter he would pop.
"I said-"
"No, I know what you said. But I don't understand why it 'concerns you greatly'." And here Spock was the one that broke his gaze, glancing off to the side with a mulish expression. Well, mulish for him.
"I would prefer not to discuss this in the corridor, Doctor." McCoy raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. If Spock was going to come here in the middle of the night and throw his heart for a loop, he didn't damn well get preferences. When he didn't say anything Spock actually sighed tersely through his nose and forced his shoulders loose.
"It…saddens me. To see that one such as yourself would withdrawal from social contact simply because of uncertainty. You should not be here by yourself, drowning your sorrows in alcohol and music."
McCoy did not blush, dammit, no matter what you heard.
"I'm not uncertain about anything, Mr. Spock. Good night," he hissed, thumb jamming the button to close the bulkheads. Spock jammed his foot in the doorway in turn, and the bulkhead paused, automatic safety features making it impossible to smash Spock's foot like a good old-fashioned door would. McCoy cursed as he shouldered his way inside, hurrying back and nearly stumbling as Spock strode forward.
"Baby you can feel it coming, you know I can hear it, hear all the souls, Baby can you feel me, feel you…"
"Leonard." McCoy nearly choked at how close he was, how warm and sure and wonderful. He turned his back, making it look like he was intent on cleaning as Spock hovered close behind.
"You would be surprised, Leonard, at how much a single touch can reveal." He stiffened, his clothes wadded in his hands. He stared at them sightlessly as Spock moved closer. Their heights allowed Spock's warm breath to wash over the back of his neck, and he closed his eyes and shuddered.
"You stole my thoughts?" he bit, unable to soften his words. The touch of barely-there fingertips on his elbow made him start, and he dropped his dirty pants on the floor again.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps you are simply transparent. I didn't need to read your thoughts to see how your heartbeat sped, how your breath shortened. If there is not deeper emotion between us, Leonard, then there is at least attraction." Quickly, before he could chicken himself out of it, he turned, and was nearly nose to nose with Spock. Brown eyes gazed at him, clear and so warm and so human. His breath was hard to come by, all of a sudden.
"So, what are you proposing, Mr. Spock?" His voice was gone, his whisper trembling in the warm air. Instead of answering, Spock raised his hand and gently cupped his jaw and cheek, and McCoy didn't quite gasp at the familiar current of otherworldly something that always lingered in Spock's touch.
He couldn't think, couldn't breath, couldn't do anything but feel as Spock bent forward, slow as molasses, and kissed him so gently and tenderly that he thought he'd die, then and there.
When Spock drew away slightly, hesitant, he needed a moment to figure out what nerves did what again, and he knotted his fingers in Spock's uniform and nudged him forward, this time equally slow but now curious, testing the limits with careful methods.
When Spock pulled away again, he was breathless and a little loopy. He struggled to regain himself as Spock rested his forehead against his, and suddenly the Vulcan was chuckling, and he burst out laughing because it was just so damn ludicrous and he was so damn drunk.
"Took us long enough, huh?" he snorts, and Spock kisses him some more, smiling against his lips. There's a certain amount of need and desperation in their touches now, and McCoy has to consciously stop himself from shoving Spock back onto his bed and ravishing him.
"Doctor, perhaps- as it is so late- you should sleep." McCoy had to appreciate his coherency in between kisses, but he shook his head as his lips spilled down Spock's chin and to the side of his neck.
"Couldn't sleep now if I wanted to," he murmured, delighting at the green flush that was starting to warm Spock's skin. Spock caught his hands up in his own, and McCoy tangled their fingers together, heady with pleasure-
Spock took a step back, and he stumbled as the younger man swept him up into his arms like he was nothing and laid him on the bed, covering him with his body like a burning blanket. McCoy's heart hammered in his throat as Spock's fingers tightened on his, soft eyes scorching into him.
"I feel it is…unwise, to indulge in physical copulation. At this time." McCoy smiled at his add-on, his heart slowly calming.
"You know, I think you're right, Spock." For a moment, they simply stared at each other, and McCoy frowned at the clingy little thought floating in his mind. Spock, however, answered it without him having to ask. He kicked off his boots, shed his science tunic, and allowed Leonard to bundle them up under the comforter as the lights dimmed.
"No, I ain't givin' up love, I ain't givin' up no, no, I ain't givin' up on us."
As he drifted off in Spock's arms, the song ended, and he couldn't help but think that maybe he would let Joanna keep that one song.